The Return of Sherlock
by Foxy-Badger
Summary: Three years later after his presumed death, Sherlock returns to 221b Baker Street.


**Title:** The Return of Sherlock**  
>Author:<strong> Moonshape  
><strong>Fandom:<strong> BBC Sherlock  
><strong>Pairing:<strong> Sherlock/John  
><strong>Genre:<strong> angst, slash (M/M), drama, hurt/comfort  
><strong>Rating:<strong> PG/R  
><strong>Word count:<strong> 2446  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Three years later, Sherlock returns to 221b Baker Street.  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> Story is mine. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson belong to Sir Conan Doyle. Contains paragraphs used from 'The Return of Sherlock Holmes' by Sir Conan Doyle and edited by me with no intentions of plagiarising. BBC Sherlock belongs to the BBC. No profit made. Just for fun.

* * *

><p>I had only entered my bedroom when Mrs. Hudson came in to say that a person desires to see me. It is a man I had bumped into earlier that afternoon, who I figure to be a book collector. His sharp, wizened face peered out from a frame of white hair, and his precious volumes, a dozen of them least, were wedged under his right arm.<p>

'You're surprised to see me, sir,' he says, in a strange, croaking voice.

I acknowledge that I am.

'Well, I've a conscience, sir, and when I chanced to see you go into this house. I came hobbling after you, and I thought to myself, I'll just step in and see that kind gentleman, and tell him that if I was a bit gruff in my manner there was not any harm meant. I am much obliged to him for picking up my books.'

'Oh you're welcome,' I answer with a nod, but am still confused why this man has followed me to Baker Street. 'How did you know who I was?'

'Well, sir, if it isn't too great a liberty, I am a neighbour of yours. You'll find my little bookshop at the corner of Church Street, and I'm very happy to see you, I am sure. Maybe you collect books yourself, sir; here's _British Birds_ and _Catullus_ and _The Holy War_ – a bargain every one of them. With five volumes you could just fit that gap on that second shelf. It looks untidy, does it not sir?'

I frown and move my head to look at the cabinet behind me. When I turn again Sherlock is standing smiling at me across the sitting room. I slowly blink and stare at him for some seconds in utter amazement, and then I faint.

Half a minute later, I find myself lying on the settee, a bottle of smelling salt under my nose. Sherlock is bending over me, the bottle of smelling salt in his hand.

'My dear John,' says the well-remembered voice, 'I owe you a thousand of apologies. I had no idea that you would be so affected.'

'No idea?' I burst out with rage, pushing him away. I jump up and do the first thing that pops into my head.

'John, I –-

I punch him in the face.

He stumbles back and he grabs his jaw with his left hand, raising his right to hold me back

'John I – I'm sorry,' he gasps. 'I – I didn't mean to –

'I saw you fall!' I scream on top of my voice. 'I saw you – hit the ground!'

'Ah – but you didn't,' he says as he holds up a finger. 'You never – saw me actually hit the ground.'

I stop and think at what he has just said. It had happened years ago and even though it feels like it had happened yesterday, I have problems recalling the day. I had seen – no I had _heard _–

'John,' he says and lowers his left hand and steps forwards. 'I'm sorry it had to happen this way – but it was necessary you believed –'

I don't let him finish. I shake my head and step towards him. He flinches; afraid I am going to hit him again. But I don't. I do what I have never dared to tell my therapist about. I do what I have been longing for even before he 'died'.

My hands grab his face and I jam my lips against his. He stumbles back and hits the wall between the door and the kitchen.

'Jo-ohn?' I hear him say and his lips move against mine.

'Shut up,' I say and bite his lip. 'You owe me this now.'

For a moment I fear he will push me away but he never does. I feel his hands on the small of my back and he hungrily opens his mouth so I can force my tongue inside him.

He grabs my head and pushes himself away from the wall and I force him into the kitchen. I might be smaller but I can easily force him to where I want him. He hits the table where we stop and I pull his tie over his head, throwing it down on the floor before I push his jacket over his shoulders. His hands have already found the rim of my jumper and he pulls it over my head. He moves to my left and slips past the table, where I get the chance to push the coat down his arms as well, walking backwards. He seems to be aiming for his bedroom but his back hits the fridge where I pin him against the cold plastic of the door.

'John – I heard shouting. Is everything al – oh!' Mrs. Hudson enters the kitchen and as our kiss ends, we both look at the older woman. 'Sherlock!' she cries with delight, tears shining in her eyes and extending her arms towards him.

'Although it is lovely to see you again, Mrs Hudson, I'll have to ask you to leave.'

She stops and claps her hands to her mouth.

'I'm disturbing you, aren't I?'

'Very much,' I say as I look at Sherlock's chest.

'Shall I put the kettle on, then? I'll wait until you two are – well, you know.'

'Lovely,' I mutter.

'Get - out!' Sherlock shouts and Mrs. Hudson hurries out of the room.

I snort out a chuckle, and shake my head in disbelief.

'People will definitely talk,' Sherlock says as he stares at the place where Mrs. Hudson has disappeared, his eyes slightly narrowed.

'Oh they already are,' I say and continue to chuckle and look up to see Sherlock looking down at me. I then notice his eyes are a different colour and can vaguely make out a thin rim around his irises.

'You've got your -,' I stammer as I point up at his eyes. 'You know.'

'Contacts, yes,' he says and plucks the contacts out of his eyes, rolling them up in a ball and flicking them carelessly away. Instead of looking into a pair of brown eyes, I am looking at the familiar grey vortexes of the eyes I know so well.

I sigh deeply and place my hands on his jaw again, shaking my head in disbelief.

'Why did you do this to me?' I ask and my voice starts to tremble. 'Why did you let me go through all of this?'

But he shakes his head and says: 'I'll explain. Later,' and he lowers his head, pressing his lips against my cheekbone. I close my eyes as I feel tears forming behind them. I've been trying to hold them back for minutes, but I can't anymore.

'I've – I've missed you so much,' I vomit the words before I even realise it.

'And I you,' I hear his voice rumble in my ear and his arms wrap around my waist and I swing mine around his neck.

I swallow and blink violently, preventing my tears from falling. But my eyes are still wet as we pull back from the hug. I look at him and place my lips against his again, devouring them in my kiss.

He turns us around and I bump against the door of his bedroom. He pushes open the door and we stumble into the room. He breaks from the kiss and I open my eyes and see how he examines the room. I look around as well, sighing as I remember Sherlock's old bedroom had become a storeroom for all his equipment and possessions.

'Ah,' is all I say, referring to all the boxes cramped into the room. 'That's all your stuff – in boxes. Mrs Hudson wanted to get rid of all your equipment but I – I didn't want to.'

'You thought I would come back, didn't you?' Sherlock asks as he looks down at me again. 'You _hoped_ I would come back.'

'Sort of – yeah,' I nod awkwardly as I push a box that is blocking the way to the bed away with my right foot. 'I – didn't want to think about giving all that away.'

'Because that would mean you would have moved on.'

'Yes.'

'And you haven't.'

'I was never going to.'

He looks at me and I can see he is genuinely touched by my words. I stare at his chest again and reach up with trembling hands, undoing the top button of his shirt. He stands completely still as I undo all the buttons, pushing the shirt down his lean shoulders. He drops the shirt on the ground and for a moment we're not even touching each other and there is a distance between us of about half a foot. I just stare at his chest, my jaws locked, before I look up. I'm shocked by what his eyes tell me. What they want. What they are.

Hunger.

He steps closer and I'm forced to breathe through my mouth because I am too excited to regulate my pattern. His hands pull my t-shirt out of my trousers and I lift up my arms as he pulls my shirt over my head. His eyes wonder over to my left shoulder and I turn my face to see what he's looking at.

I sometimes forget I have once been shot. I'm only reminded during cold winters and when I stand in front of the mirror. The scar is about the same size as a 50p coin and I now realise Sherlock has never seen it before.

I look back at him and I see his eyes flash over to mine. I shift uncomfortably and he reaches up with his right hand. He places his index and middle finger lightly on the old war wound and feels the soft skin. My breathing quickens.

His hands move to my shoulder and he places his palm on my bicep. He leans in and I feel is lips against the scar. I inhale sharply and I close my eyes with delight.

'Oh God,' I gasp and he pulls me closer again and our bodies touch. He shifts his arm around my arm and places it flat on my shoulder blade. His other hand finds the side of my face and he kisses me again.

I gasp as I open my mouth to him and lay my hands on his slim hips. How long have I fantasised about this? It had seemed like forever, even before his 'death'.

'Why didn't we ever do this before?' I ask as I withdraw at once and he looks at me as if he had expected me to ask this.

'I don't know,' he admits in his usual casual tone.

'I didn't think you'd be – interested,' I say. 'Because you had never – and with Irene Adler.'

'The woman is not you, John,' he replies, and his thumb brushes past my cheekbone. 'She will never be you.'

'Yeah, but—

'It's you John,' he says in a low huskyvoice. 'It has always been you.'

'Then why did you never –,'

'Not exactly my area, John,' he interrupts as he peers down at me from under his thin eyebrows.

'That's not what it seems to be like,' I say as I raise my eyebrows for a moment.

'Call it instinct,' he says and pushes me back. My shins hit the bed and I'm about to lose my balance. But his hand is still on my shoulder and my fall isn't as hard as it could have been.

He lands on top of me and his hands slip around my wrists as he pins them above my head. I know I can struggle but I don't. Instead I just lay there, whimpering every time his lips touch the skin on my neck. They are warm and wet and I squirm underneath him as he drags his mouth over my Adam's apple.

I work my arms free and our fingers entwine. His hands do something to me. I feel closer to him than I have ever been. Not because we have ended up in his bed – but because I'm holding his hands. After three years of solidarity, I feel no longer alone.

'Sherlock,' I breathe into his ear, arching my back to force our chests to touch.

'John,' he breathes against my skin in return.

But I don't say what I want to say. I hope my feelings are clear to him right now. I don't have to tell him I love him. He probably has always known I that I do. Maybe I have been the one who never realised I did.

I push myself up and force him to roll on his back. I straddle his lap and hold his face as I kiss him, my thumbs caressing his cheekbones. I'm distracted when I feel a rock hard bulge in his trousers, pressing against mine. I never wanted anything more in my life.

His hands are trembling as I feel them tug at my belt. Oh God, is this real?

I reach down and help him undo my belt. I slide off his lap and push my trousers down and pants down and he starts to undo his own belt. When I get rid of my own trousers and pants, I crawl back on top of him again. He welcomes me with a kiss, his teeth biting on my lips so hard that it almost hurts. But it's a good pain. Nothing can compare to the pain I have felt these past years.

He releases my lip and I pull back to look at him. We both breathe irregularly and I know what he wants. I feel his hand close around my manhood and I close my eyes, my head slightly rolling back and a faint moan escapes my mouth.

An hour later we are lying on our backs, staring at the ceiling. The bed is warm from our body heat and our bodies are covered with sweat and other moist substances that come with the process of two men having sex.

He smokes a cigarette but I don't care. I don't know what he has been up to these past years. And frankly, I don't care. He is back and that is what counts for me.

'Boys?' We hear Mrs. Hudson call us from the kitchen. 'The tea's gone cold now.'

'Bring it up, Mrs. Hudson,' Sherlock calls as he brings his long fingers to his mouth, inhaling from his cigarette. 'Iced-tea will be perfect to celebrate this occasion,' and he presses the cigarette against his night desk, burning the wooden surface.

'What occasion?' I ask as I turn to look at him.

'That I have returned to you,' he says, and pulls the sheets over our heads and I feel his lips against mine.


End file.
